


By The Gaslights

by Codydarkstalker



Category: From Hell, Hannibal (TV), Historical Criminals RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Blood and Gore, Jack the Ripper - Freeform, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sex Work, Victorian Attitudes, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-07 11:51:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12840567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Codydarkstalker/pseuds/Codydarkstalker
Summary: Will Graham desires nothing more than to sit in the library of his country estate, with his numerous hounds, and read and write books on the nature of the criminal mind. He has no dreams of power or money or desire to live in the bustling streets of London. But when a series of murders take the city by storm, a series of murders tied by royal intrigue, sex, and possibly occult secrets, he is called in to help save the city from the terrifying threat of Jack the Ripper.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta reading thoughtfully provided by VallasRevas!

Despite the late hour, the streets of Whitechapel were crowded as ever. It was hard to even feel the chill of the night air through the press of bodies on the main streets. Outside every bar and public boarding house, people huddled in groups, drinking, talking and smoking, the smell and heat of them filling the air. The streets were still teeming with carriages as well, carts of meat and animal hides being shipped out to other, nicer, parts of the city. The roads were thick with mud and horse shit and waste water people had dumped from chamber pots. The air was heavy and humid despite the cold.

Doctor Hannibal Lecter took the step down from his carriage carefully, his shiny shoes sinking shallowly into the muck. He turned and retrieved a large bag made of well cared for black leather from the seat. As he passed under one of the gaslight lamps, his features stood out in sharp relief from the darkness of his jacket and hat. A well formed face with strong cheekbones and a wide mouth stretched in a distasteful grimace. He held a handkerchief with a bit of scent on it over his mouth and nose so he could breath without feeling the need to retch. He took a shallow breath through his mouth and made his way down the road, bag held tight under his arm.

As he made his way down Whitechapel road, he was struck by the obvious poverty in which the denizens of the neighborhood lived. Almost every building had a number of vagrants squatting against a wall, passing back and forth a cheap bottle of liquor or simply smoking a cigarette. One notable fellow had passed out half in the road, empty bottle still clutched in his hand and vomit all down the front of his shirt.

There were a number of lodging houses off of the main road, advertising rooms, or beds, or just spots on a long wooden pew where at least one might sleep out of the rain. The people who could not even afford those meager accommodations settled for bedding down outside, in the parks or churchyards and graveyards. It seemed as though the entire city had overflowed, and people were spilling into the streets like dirty bathwater. 

Women stood in little groups like painted pigeons on the corners, smiling fake smiles and batting their eyelashes at any man that seemed like he might have a penny or two to taken them into an alley. Indeed, it was possible to not only hear, but see, people coupling in the shadows, trousers and garters lying in the mud between spread feet. The puddles smelled like beer, urine and human excrement.

One or two of the women took interest in the doctor, sharp eyes noting the quality of his coat and hat and recognizing him as a man of means.

“Hello there luv, would you like a bit of company?” one simpered at him, trying to catch him by the arm with pink painted talons. Under her heavy perfume she smelled like stale beer and sweat.

Hannibal forced a smile and carefully moved his arm away before she could soil his coat with her hand. “Thank you my dear, but not tonight,” he replied in softly accented English.

“Don’t like foreigners anyways,” the woman whispered to her fellow whores as he walked away.

The doctor ignored the comment and continued on his way. It was beginning to drizzle, and the gaslight lamps offered little visibility in the rain. A man, walking with the exaggerated staggering gait of the very drunk bumped into him, nearly falling backwards into the gutter when he bounced off of Hannibal’s shoulder.

“Sorry sir,” he slurred, struggling to straighten himself. “Didn’t see you there.” He made to head off down the road again, but was stopped by Hannibal, who caught him firmly by the arm.

“Hey! Let go of me!” The man squawked, trying to pull his arm back. He jerked backward and his bottle sloshed out an amount of strong smelling liquor.

Hannibal squeezed the man’s arm tighter. “I’m sorry, but I believe you have something of mine.” He tightened his grip further, drawing a yelp from the man. “You should return it.”

“I got no idea what you’re on about,” the man sneered. “I ain’t took nothing of yours.” He winced as Hannibal nearly crushed his wrist in his grasp. “Fucking shite!” He swung his free arm wildly, attempting to smash the bottle into Hannibal’s head.

Hannibal easily ducked the blow and suddenly twisted his wrist, spinning the man’s arm. It crackled loudly at the shoulder and then hung down limp. The man screamed and dropped the bottle, falling to his knees. Hannibal ignored his cries and reached into the man’s front trouser pocket, pulling out a black leather billfold.

“You should not steal from people,” Hannibal said calmly, tucking his wallet back into the inner pocket of his jacket. “It is rude.”

“Rude?” The man cried, clutching at his limp arm with his good one. “You broke my bleeding arm, you arsehole!” He sniffled and gingerly felt at his shoulder.

Hannibal glanced up and down the street and sighed. “It is not broken, it has merely been dislocated. You will need assistance to get it back into place, a doctor would be a good idea.” He didn’t wait for the man to respond and instead set off down the street again, this time, keeping a closer eye out for would be pickpockets. He was glad the man had reached for that pocket. He did not want to lose his wallet, but the money was of little importance. But it would have been harder to deal with situation if the man had instead reached into other pocket, the one deeper in the lining of his coat, that he had sewn in himself. Instead of money the enterprising theif would have found himself with something much more unusual, and more valuable, at least to Hannibal. A leather case with a set of scalpels nestled inside. All kept razor sharp and inlaid with ivory in the handles.

He made his way down the street and then took a sharp turn down an alley. Away from the main street, there were still plenty of people, all enjoying the relative privacy of the darkness. Vagrants slept on the damp streets, blanketed in old coats and nested down in piles of rags like rats. Men and women coupled in the darkness behind piles of trash, their grunts and groans echoing in the shadows.

Hannibal kept his head down and moved quickly through the maze of alleyways and side streets, avoiding the beggars and ladies of the night, and eventually arrived at a door. It was on the back side of a building, in a dead end alley. The door was large and wooden and had been painted what looked like it was once a brilliant red, but had congealed over time to the shade of old scabs.

Hannibal carefully scanned the alley, and finding it empty, knocked on the door. Twice in quick succession and then three more at a slower tempo. After a moment, the door swung open, revealing a dark interior hallway. There was a small table in the entrance, and upon it sat a candle in a holder, and a pack of matches. He looked down the alley one last time, and then quickly stepped inside, swinging the door closed behind him.

Once he had lit the match Hannibal could see the hallways was shorter than it appeared, and at the end was another door, this one painted a dusty black. He carefully approached the door, and tested the handle. Finding it unlocked, he pushed his way through, into the darkness beyond.


	2. Chapter 2

William Graham paced the length of the library for a third time. His heels made a perfect rhythmic click on the polished wooden floors, which he found strangely soothing. The library was large, housing over a dozen bookcases, and well appointed with large upholstered chairs for reading and a large fireplace, with a crackling fire already going inside. It was unseasonably cold, and between the fire and the many books, Will should have felt very much at home. Yet all he felt was unease. 

He started slightly when one of the doors opened, hurrying to stand still and at attention. An elderly looking butler came into the room, bearing a large silver tea tray and followed by a large man in a dark suit. 

“Tea sir,” the butler said, laying down the tray on a small wooden table. With milk and honey, as you like it,” he added, carefully handing the warm china mug to Will.

Will took it and sipped without comment. Of course the butler knew how he liked his tea, it was Buckingham Palace, they probably knew how he liked his tea, what newspaper he bought everyday, and what kind of names the other boys in school had called him. He forced a quick smile of gratitude and knocked back most of the tea in a long gulp. It did little to still his nerves though.

“William Graham, yes?” The man in the dark suit extended a hand for Will to shake. “I have heard quite a bit about you.”

Will set down the cup hurriedly, nearly dropping it, and then reached out to grasp the man’s hand. “I can’t really say the same, sorry,” he admitted. “I’m actually not entirely sure who you are.”

The man smiled and gestured to a set of comfortable looking chairs. “Why don’t we sit?” he asked, ignoring Will’s implied question entirely. 

Will nodded and gingerly sat on the chair. It was upholstered in a rich cream colored fabric and embroidered with a variety of English roses. Sitting on it made him nervous, the same way he had felt as a small child when he came in from playing knowing he could be scolded for the dirt on trousers. He sat up ramrod straight, his back barely touching the chair at all.

The man seemed to be fighting a smile as he settled into the chair opposite Will, looking quite comfortable in all the finery. He was an older man, Will noted, though not elderly. His suit was dark, and despite being a bit plain was obviously well made, and freshly laundered. His boots were new, and had been freshly polished. 

“My name is Jack Crawford,” He said, watching Will’s face closely for some kind of reaction. “You might have heard of me before.”

Will’s eyes went wide, but he managed to school his face into blankness. “Sir Jack Crawford, isn’t it?” He asked, keeping his voice measured. “I believe you were knighted, services to Queen and Country or something of that sort?”

Jack shrugged, as if being knighted were of no great consequence. “I was, I helped her Majesty with training staff at Scotland Yard. I did a good bit of work teaching officers there and making adjustments to the police protocols. I also donated a good bit of money to set up training courses, which help teach new detectives.”

“That’s quite admirable,” Will said lightly. He didn’t mention that the police force was still years from being a half decent deterrent against crime in England, and in fact in many parts of London the police were more of a problem than the regular sort of criminal. 

Jack smirked. “I know you don’t think much of the Metropolitan Police Service Mr. Graham. I’ve read your essays, and even attended one of your classes.”

This managed to truly surprise Will. He gave lectures at a local collegesome evenings, talking about the nature of the criminal mind and the link to the emerging science of psychology. Many people attended, though most of them seemed to come for the parlor tricks and cold reading rather than insight on the criminal mind. To hear that someone like Sir Crawford would come was shocking. 

“So what, you want to offer me a job?” Will asked, sitting forward and leaning his arms on his knees. “If you know anything about me, and it appears you do, than you must know what my answer would be. I won’t work for Scotland Yard.” His voice was soft but his words were clipped. This was a waste of time. He liked his comfortable old house outside of the city. He liked his writing and his books and his lectures. But he also liked the peace and quiet of the country, and his many hounds. “I’m sorry, but if that’s what this is about, then I should be going.” He moved to stand. 

“Please Mr. Graham, hear me out.” Sir Crawford gripped Will by the sleeve. “I would like your professional services, but you would not be working for Scotland Yard.”

Will hesitated and then slowly lowered himself back into the chair. “Well, if I may be candid, then who would I be working in service of Sir?” 

“You would be working for the royal family.” Crawford dug into his coat and drew out a small packet of papers form his breast pocket. “Or rather, you would be working directly in the service of the Queen herself.”

Will hesitantly took the papers. They were carefully folded and sealed with red wax, which had been impressed with the seal of Queen Victoria. He gently traced the design with his fingers before carefully breaking it open and looking at them. 

His eyes went wide as he read the documents. The papers he was holding were all filled from edge to edge with small, careful script, and they were full of secrets that could destroy not only the royal family, but also destroy the United Kingdom and English Empire. He flipped through the papers, scanning them quickly for key details, trying to figure out exactly how he was meant to be of service. The mess in front of him had little to do with psychology and more to do with political intrigue, something he had never had any sense for at all.

“What, what am I even looking at?” he asked, turning the pages over and over, unable to look away. “I mean, these papers, have you read these papers?” he demanded. “Is this some sort of joke? There’s surely no way all of this is true.”

Crawford sighed wearily. “I was there when they were written, and I am very familiar with the contents. I am sorry to say everything in those papers is true, and there is more besides.” He looked around the room and located a long cord, which he reached out and pulled. “I believe a drink is required in order to carry on with this conversation.”

A few moments later and the butler reappeared, his face blankly expectant. “Gentlemen, is there anything I can do for you?”

Crawford looked at Will for a moment before deciding for the both of them. “A bottle of scotch please. Two glasses, and some ice and water as well.”

“Very good sir.” The butler swept down into a smooth bow and then hurried out the door. 

Will took a moment to read the other man’s face. He was clearly upset, there were dark shadows under his eyes and a tightness around his mouth that Will hadn’t noticed before. The pressure was clearly mounting. 

Will opened his mouth to ask the man what exactly was his role in this mess, but snapped it shut when the door swung open on well oiled hinges, and the butler came in with a small trolley for their drinks. The man set a silver platter on the table between the two chairs and poured a measure of scotch into two glasses. The scotch was a beautiful, rich shade of amber, poured out of a cut crystal decanter. He didn’t ask how they took their drinks, just dutifully added a measure of water and ice to Will’s glass, and ice alone to Crawfords. With that done he set the trolley with the bottle of liquor and ice bucket to the side. 

“Is that all sir?” he asked, clearly addressing Crawford with his gaze.

“Yes, thank you. We will ring if we need you again.” Crawford smiled, taking a sip of his drink as the butler exited the room. 

Will moved to speak, but Crawford held up a hand to silence him.

“Wait just a moment,” he whispered. “The help here is wonderful, but even the best servants listen at the door from time to time.”

They sat in silence for a moment, sipping their drinks until Crawford seemed to feel enough time had passed.

“How much do you know about the royal family?” Crawford asked, ice in his drink tinkling against the glass.

“Not much,” Will admitted, studying the content of his drink. It was good scotch, better than the sort he bought. “I know all the basic information of course, but I have no head for politics and royal gossip is of little interest to me.”

“Are you familiar with Prince Albert?” Crawford asked, taking the papers and shuffling through them to find the relevant page. “He has caused quite a stir in the palace lately. He’s always been a tad eccentric, but he recently took up with a woman.” He paused, took a steadying breath, and then continued. “A Catholic woman.”

Will nodded, suddenly understanding a little bit. Marrying a catholic woman would be a serious problem for the rest of the royal family. But the rest of the papers still confused him.

“I understand that the woman’s faith, and his sudden...dalliance with her might be a cause for rumors. But how has this become a criminal matter?” He asked.

Crawford sighed. “The Queen of course took an interest when her grandson, began acting strangely. She employed several men to…” he paused for a moment, searching for proper words. “To check in on his welfare and safety,” he finished lamely.

Will nodded, urging him to continue. That the Queen had her family watched was practically a matter of public knowledge. The royal family was too important not to be well protected and looked after, both for their own sakes, and the crown’s. 

“Well it seems that the situation has taken a turn. The Prince was said to have fathered a child, This could not be allowed. The situation was dealt with.” Crawford raised his eyebrows meaningfully and took a long, fortifying drink of his scotch.

Will grimaced into his own cup. The child would of course be taken from it’s family. He could hope that at least the child had been sent somewhere nice, maybe the Welsh countryside, and not just dropped into an overcrowded London orphanage.

“There were however, a number of friends and neighbors who were simply convinced the young lady in question had been pregnant, and had given birth to a healthy baby.” Crawford motioned to another sheet of paper. “It became a matter of concern for the government at large. You see, it was no longer just a rumor that might tarnish the good name of the royals, but a child could be used as a political tool.”

Will sighed and knocked back the rest of his scotch. “I am sorry sir, but I appear to be less intelligent than you are giving me credit for.” He held up a hand to stop Crawford’s protest. “I must beg you to speak more plainly to me. Because while this is all very interesting, I am still uncertain how any of this could involve me.” He stood up from his seat and paced around the room. “I specialize in serious criminals: murderers, rapists, men who ought to be locked away forever for their crimes.”

“A woman, one who knew of the baby, was found in alleyway. Someone Had stabbed her in the chest and stomach many, many times, and walked away. Whoever did this is still a free man as far as we know, and more people are likely to die.” Crawford’s voice was flat, all manner of charm suddenly gone.

Will’s blood ran cold. “Surely you are jesting, though it would be in poor taste to joke about something like that,” he croaked. His throat felt dry and tight.

Crawford shook his head sadly. “I am sorry to say that I am not.” He held out his empty glass. “Would you kindly make me another? I feel the scotch makes this discussion more bearable.”

Will wordlessly took the glass and turned to the bar cart, pouring a liberal amount of scotch in. After a moment’s hesitation he poured a double for himself. It tasted like ash in his mouth.

“It’s not been in the papers yet,” Crawford said, sipping gratefully. “For that, we can at least be grateful. But it will not take long before the whole city is in a panic. White Chapel is a nasty place, but it was never this unsafe. Something must be done.”

Will took the papers and gathered them carefully in his hands. “May I take these home with me?” he asked voice soft. “I would like to look them over more thoroughly.”

“Of course you may,” Crawford replied. “Please take some time to think matters over.” He paused, clearly struggling with his thoughts. “But I pray you do not take long with this matter. I fear more deaths are soon to come, and we must act soon if we are to stop this grisly business from spinning out of our control entirely.”

Will nodded and took his leave. When he opened the door of the library, the butler was waiting outside, looking a bit abashed at having bit caught trying to listen at the door. 

“Is-is there anything I can help you with sir?” The man hurried to stand a bit straighter. Self consciously smoothing his jacket lapels. 

“I’m leaving. Please call a carriage around.” Will watched the man hurry off, and took a moment to collect himself. 

He didn’t want the job. He didn’t want to help. He wanted to go home and lay in his bed, feel the warm and comforting presence of his dogs at his feet. But the papers. He clenched his hands tightly, fingernails digging into his palms. The papers were interesting, too interesting. It was dangerous, for him to be so uniquely interested. Perhaps he was already in too far. He had spent years trying to avoid a dark truth, that murder and madness haunted his thoughts no matter what he did. It was what made him come back, time and time again, to the nature of mankind, the nature of crime and sin. When he was younger, had prayed. He had spent hours as a child in prayer, hoping he would one day wake and be...normal. That he would no longer feel the compulsion towards the darkness. His favorite books as a child had been fairy tales, the dark ones, with pictures of devils and demons and beasties and fairies that would snatch up young children, witches that would gobble up wayward toddlers. He had spent hours staring at them. When his nanny noticed and took them away, encouraging instead more light hearted fare, he had turned to real life. 

History books were a discovery, a treasure. The darkness of mankind laid out plainly before him. War, death, disease. Disease had taken his family. His parents had died of influenza, and he had been left all alone. Well off, with ample property and a tidy sum of money to ensure he could live out his years in gentlemanly leisure, but also without any living family to speak of.

The butler returned after a few minutes and lead him out to the waiting carriage.

“Have a good evening sir.” The butler swept into a low bow and a footman handed Will has hat and bag.

Will simply nodded in return and crawled into the carriage. He was looking forward to the ride home, it would give him time to think things over.


	3. Chapter 3

Will spent the coach ride home sitting on his hands. He didn’t want to touch the papers Sir Crawford had given him until he had a chance to think. He knew if he picked them up again, if he read them again, he would be hooked and there would be no going back. No, he needed time, time with his books and his dogs, and hopefully some time to sleep. 

Sleep was a struggle, always. Nightmares were a regular companion for Will. Many nights he simply sat up in his bed, kept company by a cup of tea, a novel, and one of his dogs. He had tried warm wine, herbal teas, even laudanum. None of them truly helped. The laudanum let him sleep, it was true, but he woke as f rising from the dead, head blurry and unfocused for hours. That was a remedy he saved for a last resort..

It took around five hours to travel from London to his estate outside of Oxford. It wasn’t the largest house, but it felt enormous. It was a house meant for a family, for servant, not just Will, his dogs, and his small staff. In his younger days there had been more people. A butler, a number of valets and footmen and a flurry of maids. None of them ever needed as Will Graham did not entertain. Most of what they did was based on outdated customs, carried over from Will’s parents. Changing the arrangement of the furniture, airing out linens for guest rooms that were never in use, polishing the silver that no one used. 

Now most of the rooms were shut up, the furniture draped, the beds kept stripped bare. The girls from the village who did the bulk of the cleaning up would dust the empty rooms twice a month, keep the dust from settling into mustiness or mold. Will mostly avoided them when they came. He would lock himself away in his study, or take the dogs out for a walk of the property. The maids didn’t like the dogs anyway. 

Will exited the carriage with a soft word of thanks. There were lights inside of the house, the housekeeper was obviously waiting up for him. When he opened the door, he was met by a mass of fur and wagging tails, a dozen dogs moving around him, jumping and barking happily, pawing at his trousers. He set the papers down on a nearby table and knelt down onto the floor, heedless of any sense of decorum, and pulled them in close. He took good care of his dogs, it was something he enjoyed doing himself, even though his housekeeper Mrs. Kelly often sniffed and said it wasn’t a job for a gentleman. He liked feeding them, brushing their soft coats, washing them in a metal tub down in the kitchens. 

“Ah, good to see you’re home Master Will.” An accusing voice came from behind him.

Will turned slightly, trying not to be knocked over by a particularly enthusiastic Irish Wolfhound. “Yes, sorry, I was detained on business in London. It took longer than expected.”

Mrs. Kelly snorted and turned down the hall that lead down to the kitchen. “Dinner was hours ago, but I imagine that Mrs. Turner set something aside for you in case you came home hungry.” She paused and glanced over her shoulder, looking at him measuringly. ‘I don’t imagine you’ve eaten.”

Will held his hands up in surrender. “I haven’t.” He glanced down at the dogs, who were still milling around him. “I also wouldn’t mind a little something for the dogs?” 

The woman sighed and nodded, heading off down the hall. Will managed to make it to his feet without a dog pulling him down, and herded the pack into his personal library. 

The library was his favorite room in the old house, and the one he used the most. He had converted the adjoining room into a study, one of the few changes he had made to the estate after his parents passed. He took most of his meals there, surrounded by the comfort of his dogs and his books, a fire keeping the room warm. 

He settled into a worn leather armchair, and a large wolfhound took a place lying over his feet. Maximus was an old dog, no longer interested in chasing squirrels around the property, but he made a great foot warmer. Someone had lit the fire, and the room was warm and comfortable. He settled back and closed his eyes for just a moment, relaxing in the familiar environment. 

A few minutes later, Mrs. Kelly came in with a cart carrying a tray of sandwiches and a pot of tea in a warmer. He could smell hints of citrus, Earl Grey then. It was a favorite of his, and the only tea he liked more than he liked coffee. Mrs. Kelly had been with him for years; it was nice how she always knew what he wanted, even when he wasn’t sure himself. She also brought up a plate of meat scraps for the dogs, which Mrs. turner must have set aside. The dogs normally ate dog biscuits, a sort of hard tack softened in milk and meat juice. Whole bits of meat were a treat.

“Will that be all?” Mrs. Kelly asked, pulling the cord of her dressing gown tighter over her nightdress. She was a stately woman, in her late fifties, and her steely hair was hidden under a flannel sleeping cap.

“Yes, thank you,” Will said, grabbing a sandwich to peek at the contents. Cold roast beef with mustard, his favorite. “You can go back to bed, I’ll be fine for the rest of the night on my own.”

The woman hesitated for a moment and nodded. “Good night Master Will.” She smiled and took her leave, slippered feet quietly padding off down the hall.

Will poured himself a cup of tea and tossed a few bits of meat to the dogs, smiling as they jumped to catch them. He then grabbed a sandwich, the mustard was the spicy kind, absolutely perfect, and settled in to look over the documents again.

The contents of the papers was enough to chase away any hope of sleep for the night. It was all too much. There had always been rumors about Albert. Eddy, as he was often called, was widely known to have been a strange boy and an even stranger man. Will himself had very little interest in the doings of the royal family, but even he heard things. Whispers that Albert was a homosexual, or that he was mad. It was not unheard of; royals families were often plagued by diseases of the body and mind. Most of what was said about Albert was just speculation. The man was second in line to the throne, the whole nation had a vested interest in him. There was a good chance he would one day rule the British Empire. 

Will turned to the page about the man’s wife. Annie Crook was a shopgirl, and rather pretty according to the description in the documents. A nice Catholic girl from a nice family. Nothing very interesting about her other than that she had apparently stolen the heart of a future king. By marrying the girl, Albert would have been breaking several laws, and also removing himself from the line of succession. A Catholic would never be able to rule over England. 

The whole mess was...well a mess. Will drained his cup of tea and took a bite of sandwich as he mulled the details over. The documents were official and the language dry, but he was able to infer more than a few things. Annie crook had been taken care of;so had her child, Alice. Agents of the crown would have seen to that. One way or another. Prince Albert was no longer loose in London, and would likely be kept under a closer eye than normal. There was no mention of a killing there, and yet, that was why he had been called in by Crawford. Not to mop up some sordid scandal, but to hunt down a killer. 

Martha Tabram had been stabbed thirty nine times. The same number of years she had been alive. From the description in the papers, she was an average looking woman: somewhat plump, and keen on drink as many prostitutes were known to be. A drunk woman made for easy prey. She had been murdered in the early hours of the morning, in an alley, and he body had been left bleeding in the mud. No one in the area had seen anything; no one had heard a sound. 

Will dropped the papers back on the table and leaned his head back as he thought. Whitechapel was busy at all hours, even he knew that despite having never frequented the area. Prostitutes did not limit their work to daylight hours and the streets were filled with the less fortunate. It would be difficult for a person to commit a simple crime without being seen in those conditions, let alone commit the brutality seen done to Mrs. Tabrams. 

The clock high on the wall softly ticked as Will read and reread the papers, mulling over the details. He fell asleep like that, slouched down in his chair, papers in hand and a dog in his lap. That was how Mrs. Kelly found him the next morning when she hurried in.

“Master William, please wake up!” She gently shook his shoulder, face a mask of worry.

Will blinked rapidly, the light streaming in the windows momentarily disorienting him. “Yes? What?” he croaked, struggling to sit upright under the weight of the dog still sleeping on his lap. “What happened?”

Mrs. Kelly thrust out an envelope. “This arrived this morning, from London. It appears to be very urgent.”

Will took the envelope and looked at the name in the corner. Sir Jack Crawford. It seemed he would be returning to London sooner than anticipated.


End file.
